


you've got whatever's left of me to get

by easyprey



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF, Sugar Pine 7 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Dirty Talk, Fluff, Hand Jobs, M/M, Praise Kink, Semi-Public Sex, Sex in a Car, mentions of the rest of sp7 + the fahc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-19 23:55:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15521520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/easyprey/pseuds/easyprey
Summary: "Slower," Cib repeats, like he's considering it. "I can do slower."





	you've got whatever's left of me to get

**Author's Note:**

> there's nowhere near enough fic for these idiots, so i bring you: total filth. unbeta'd/barely even edited, so all mistakes are my own.  
> gta/fake pine au, but aside from the setup and a few lines here and there you could probably just read it as a normal sp7 fic.
> 
> title from southwood plantation road by the mountain goats.

They all have their own little niche within the crew. They’ve all got their specialties, so to speak.

Autumn’s a hell of a hacker, for one, even if they rarely see her and talk to her even less. James is good at making people talk whether they want to or not. Mimi, Sami Jo, Alyssa and Lauren make a killer B-team, Parker and James have a schedule running on every other drug trade in Los Santos. Alfredo, well, he hasn’t killed them all yet so Steven counts it as a success, and Cib —

Cib is Cib.

He’s always been Steven’s second-in-command, of course, but as of late, it’s not so much he’s filled the role of Steven’s personal guard dog but more he forced himself into it with all the subtlety and grace of a sledgehammer. 

Steven’s not complaining, that’s for sure — with everyone else having their own roles, he’s been more or less appointed the leader of their little crew. Turns out that means regular attempts on his life, bad coke cut with fucking laundry detergent sent to him, and every day they begin their meetings with the day’s bounty on Steven. It’s usually somewhere around a few million by now.

Steven doesn’t mind, not really. It’s nice being that successful of a drug pusher in a city flooded with them, even more so knowing none of them will ever get close to touching him, so fuck them for trying. Still, he can’t deny the appeal that if they ever did get to him, he’d just have to point and someone else would shoot.

Cib’s still Cib, though. Just newly armed with an unnecessary excess of weapons, and a decent sense of bloodlust, and a newfound protectiveness over Steven.

It’s a lot, is all he’s saying.

 

•

 

It’s a lot in the sense that Cib is all about the violence, all about the blood and gunsmoke and the sickening crack of someone’s bone being rendered from their flesh. Steven’s watched him work more than a few times, and it’s fascinating in a way he can’t quite describe. Like there’s two different Cibs, the one Steven knows and then — whatever he becomes in the middle of an interrogation, rolling his shoulders, breaking a few bones before they even start just so they know he means business. Steven wouldn’t call him sadistic. He’s _efficient_. 

It’s just fine by Steven, because after all, it gets the job done and you can’t throw a stone in Los Santos without hitting someone a little too invested in the bloodletting aspects of the underground.

It’s fine, but the thing is: it seeps slow and sick into their personal lives, too, and then Cib’s killing some poor fuck that gave them bad information and gathering Steven up against a warehouse wall to mouth at his neck and get a blood-slick hand down his pants. Or else he’ll end up at Steven’s door at four in the morning, eyes blown black, all manic energy when he says he and James got the list of contacts they were after. He never just leaves, and when he climbs into Steven’s bed, already half undressed, Steven doesn’t miss the purposeful way Cib settles against him, pressing his fingers into his hip until it bruises.

Steven refuses to acknowledge any teasing the rest of the crew do regarding them being a _thing_ , so maybe his argument is moot because if they’re not a thing, how do they have a personal life to fuck up? Whatever. It’s fucking stupid and Steven doesn’t like wasting his time thinking about it.

Even so, he thumbs the bruises for weeks after.

He hasn’t decided how he feels about that.

 

•

 

It’s not that Steven thinks he’s too good for field work, because he doesn’t, not in the least. Everyone’s gotta start somewhere, after all. It’s just, seriously, what the fuck’s the _point_ in having an entire crew working for you when you end up being the getaway driver for the heist you fucking planned?

He knows the point, and he’s fucking bitter about it, swerving a hard right into a back alley off of Innocence, glancing in the rear view mirror and _oh fuck that’s like twenty goddamn cop cars_. His glasses are cracked and there’s blood dripping into his left eye from a head wound; he can barely fucking _see_ as he swerves down another road, nearly wiping out Cib from where he’s got his body angled out of the car to shoot. 

The point was that the job was doomed before they even began, too much security where they didn’t expect it and seriously, this is why they stay in drugs and not bank robbing. But Los Santos doesn’t raise quitters, so it’s just him and Cib, speeding down Olympic and then through as many back roads as possible in a stolen Sabre. Steven’s got blood soaking through his clothes and an easy fifty million in the trunk and he’d be having the time of his fucking _life_ if the police weren’t currently on their asses like they’re fucking Geoff Ramsey and his parade of idiots. Christ.

“Dude,” Cib yells over the sirens, trying to eye down the sights on his gun but struggling with Steven’s erratic driving. “Watch the fuck _out_ , can’t shoot for shit with you trying to impale me on a fucking streetlight.”

“Dude,” Steven yells back mockingly, voice cheerful. He purposely swerves the car, holding back a laugh as Cib spits a string of curses, almost dropping his gun. “Go fuck yourself.”

Steven takes another sharp turn just to add insult to injury, rolling his eyes as he hears Cib scoff even over the engine and sirens. Another few minutes of back alley-interstate-back alley driving, and he reaches a street straight enough he can afford a glance at Cib, busy pushing another magazine into his gun. Steven’s just sort of impressed he’s managing to balance himself out of a car window and shoot at the same time, because he’ll admit he’s a shitty driver even on his best days. A split second of aiming, Cib’s face all business, and then he’s cheering as he blows the tires out of a few of the cop cars in one go. The grin on his face doesn’t reach his eyes, cold as they reflect the blue and red lights fading in the distance with every pull of the trigger.

He’s not terrible looking, even with what’s likely a broken nose and someone else’s blood spattered on his face. Steven’s got enough mental capacity not preoccupied by getting the fuck out of there to be real fucking annoyed by that.

 

•

 

“We’re good,” Cib’s saying to James over the phone once they’ve lost the cops and found somewhere safe enough to catch their breath for the time being. “Good and fucking _rich_ , man. Fifty fucking _million_.”

Steven hears James saying something on the other end, but he largely ignores it, more focused on steadying his breathing. He rests his head on the steering wheel, eyes closed, and it’s not that he’s too good for field work but having someone’s lifeblood on him makes him more than a little ill. There’s a reason he has Cib — Steven doesn’t need to get his hands dirty because he’s there.

Steven’s gasoline, but Cib is his just-struck match, and that makes all the difference.

He sucks it up, though, because in Los Santos you either get the fuck with the program or get your throat slit. So he’s not quite as used to administering blunt force trauma as his colleagues. Who fucking cares.

Even as he’s willing his hands to stop shaking, wiping the blood out of his eye, he doesn’t miss the way Cib’s looking at him as he’s finishing up his conversation with James.

“Yeah,” he’s saying, eyes full of wary appraisal burning a hole into Steven. He’s got blood leaking from his nose, but apparently that’s not high up on his priorities, because he’s already reaching for the door handle as he says “We should be back in an hour or so.”

An hour or so. Yeah, Steven knows this game well enough. He sits there a moment, watching Cib slide out of the front and into the backseat. To his credit, he doesn’t push anything, just waits, picking at his nail polish. Cib’s got patience when he deems it necessary, but to Steven it just feels like there’s a sudden, overwhelming tension in the car. 

He knows perfectly well that if he didn’t want it, all he’d have to do is start the car again. It'd be that easy. Cib wouldn’t care either way, he’d probably just sleep the hour drive back in the backseat. Just start the car and keep driving until they’re home.

“This is fucking stupid,” Steven says, probably a little louder than necessary, and when he meets Cib’s eyes in the rear view mirror, Cib just shrugs, body language listless and lazy. “This is so fucking stupid.”

Steven takes a breath, pushing it forcefully back out of his lungs before he’s resolutely taking the keys out of the ignition and following Cib (and it pisses him off just a little, how he’s the fucking boss here but more and more lately it feels like he’s the one trailing Cib around like a lovesick dog).

It takes a second once he settles into the backseat, a small beat filled with deafening silence, and Steven's gearing up to reiterate again that seriously, this is fucking stupid, but then Cib moves, and, well.

Cib’s all hands and tongue all at once, like he always is when it comes to these things. Steven prides himself on being collected, most of the time, because that’s the sort of thing you have to be to make it big as a crime boss in Los Santos, but he can’t help the shaky groan he lets out when Cib gets one hand in his hair, winding tight, pulling at his scalp in all the right places. Another beat, Cib waiting as if to see if he’s going to try to run, and then he’s mouthing wetly at Steven’s throat, not kissing but claiming, and his other hand moves to palm where Steven’s already half-hard in his jeans.

“Fuck." Steven huffs, pushing his hips up against Cib’s fingers, and the laugh Cib gets out against his neck sends heat straight to his dick. It’s good, the warm, familiar way it is when you’ve been doing this for a while, but it’s too much, too fast — Cib’s barely even fucking done anything yet, and already Steven feels like he’s gonna come in his pants like a fucking high schooler. Between that and the blood making his fingers stick where they’re fisted into Cib’s shirt, he’s just too fucking overstimulated, and he finds himself pushing at Cib’s shoulders, moving his head to shake his hand out of his hair. 

“Dude, wait, stop, stop.”

Cib moves back, takes his hands away but bites at Steven’s collarbone, just hard enough to ache. Steven feels a little faint as Cib gives under his hands, like his vision’s going to go spotty at any minute. He pushes him all the way back, then finds himself leaning forward of his own accord. Cib’s mouth is wet and warm when Steven kisses him, lips just on this side of chapped, metallic with someone else’s blood. Steven takes a few breaths with his lips against Cib’s before he feels more grounded, but he still chalks it up to hysterics when he finds himself thinking _fuck, I could kiss him forever._ Cib’s pupils are blown when Steven pulls back, a questioning look on his face.

Steven avoids his gaze, instead clearing his throat and deciding picking at the leather upholstery of the car is a better idea than saying anything at all. Blood smears across the seat as he digs his nails into the stitching, and he winces.

“Steve,” Cib murmurs, voice uncharacteristically quiet and borderline comforting, like he’s talking to a kicked puppy. “You good, man? Because we don’t have to,” cutting himself off, gesturing to the increasingly small amount of empty space between them, “you know? Like if you’re not into it.”

His voice honestly sounds not just disappointed but sad on the last line, and Steven laughs, pushing himself up to sit better. “Of course I _want to_ , idiot, it’s just — like, too fast. Just… slower.”

“Slower,” Cib repeats, like he’s considering it. He clicks his tongue, and the way he looks him over is so fond that it makes Steven burn, makes him feel like he’s going to crawl out of his skin with want. Cib shrugs, all good natured. Any harshness left over from their heist has melted away, left in the front seat with his gun. “I can do slower.”

“So do it.”

Steven watches as Cib’s eyes flick back down to his mouth, and he licks his lips, moves his hands to grab back for him but instead Cib’s the one pushing now, arranging Steven across the backseat so there’s enough room for him to slide in between his legs. The leather is cold even in mid-summer and the door digs into his back, pressing up against his spine in a way that makes him acutely aware of his bones. Steven opens his mouth to complain but then Cib’s hitching his legs up so they hook around his waist, and he grinds down experimentally. Steven’s suddenly too fucking hot, his body feeling like a livewire.

“Shit, shit, do that again,” Steven curses, and the smile Cib flashes towards him is downright immoral. When he doesn’t do as he’s told, Steven takes it upon himself to roll his hips up, trying to get friction. Cib moves out of the way just enough so that Steven can’t get anything out of it. Cib clicks his tongue again, this time in mock disappointment, and Steven lets out a noise of frustration when Cib slides his hands down his body before settling on his hips, effectively holding him down.

“Nope. Slow, remember?” Cib says, sounding amused and incredibly pleased with himself, and fuck, Steven knew this would come back to bite him. He fucking knew it. Leave it to fucking Cib.

“At least fucking kiss me, then, idiot.” The irritation in his voice is apparent even to himself, and he’s still trying to move his hips despite Cib holding them down. Cib smiles, acquiesces for once in his fucking life, and he leans down to peck Steven on the lips a few times, the picture-perfect representation of chaste. Steven wraps his arms around his shoulders so he can’t go anywhere, groaning somewhere between frustration and anger. Cib relents, letting up so Steven can kiss him properly. There’s no real heat behind any of the kisses, no fire yet, but the embers are there and that’s just barely enough.

Time passes strangely in Los Santos, weeks feeling like minutes but minutes feeling like hours. Making out with Cib is quickly becoming one of Steven’s favorite past times, but he tries to move things along, because he said _slower_ , not _don’t touch my dick for the next millenia_. He digs his nails into Cib’s shoulders, biting at his bottom lip, going for playful, and yeah, maybe he really could do this forever. Cib responds by pushing his tongue into his mouth, not forceful like usual, instead more like he’s asking permission. Steven opens his mouth, feeling needy, and a quiet moan gets swallowed up by the hot, wet slide of Cib’s tongue against his.

Steven feels Cib’s hands leave his hips, moving up his sides to the front of his shirt. Steven’s halfway to saying something along the lines of _I will fucking cut you if you tear this off of me_ when he hears rather than sees the buttons popping, unhurried and deliberate. Good to know Cib does listen sometimes. He shivers a little as the air hits his chest, less because of the temperature and more at the concept of being exposed.

Cib breaks their kisses to readjust them. It’s uncomfortable, the backseat too small to be doing this in. Steven’s back twinges from being against the door for so long as he gets pulled up just a little, with Cib maintaining a balancing act of holding him steady in his lap as he pulls the shirt off of his shoulders. Steven hadn’t realized it, but he was still trembling — though now if it was from the overwhelming adrenaline of their heist gone wrong or from the line of Cib’s body against his is anyone’s guess — and he sighed some of his nervous energy out as Cib ran his hands up and down his arms, all comfort.

“You’re alright,” Cib says, voice rough but even, and Steven pauses. He doesn’t know what to do with that, so instead of replying he gets his mouth on Cib’s throat, sucking a dark line of marks into the skin as he works his jacket off of his shoulders, and then yanks insistently on the hem of his shirt. Cib lets him pull it off, and Steven rakes his nails down his bare back, relishing in the shudder and groan he gets in response. This is what he needed. Cib is like a fucking space heater, and the car was already far too warm in the triple digit heat. 

Steven would be more concerned with rolling a window down and letting some of the cool night air in but, well, he’s a little busy.

Really, all he wants is to turn the tables on Cib, get on top of him and make him burn just like he’s burning, but Cib is nothing if not a master of getting what he wants, and apparently he wants to focus entirely on him. Steven still pushes, trying to rile him up; he goes between marking his throat up, biting into his shoulder, and taking advantage of being in his lap for the time being and grinding against the obvious bulge in his pants. 

Cib pays no mind, the motherfucker, instead opting to push him back down against the backseat, running his hands up his thighs and settling a hand back over his dick. No, really: mother _fucker_. Steven flashes hot with the touch, with the way Cib looks at him — even with his apparent newfound gentleness, his eyes have something in them like hunger, like possession, like _I am the only person allowed to do this to you, do you understand?_

Once he’s settled again, breathing ragged from the heel of Cib’s hand grinding down on him, Cib kisses him again. It feels like a sudden game of one-up, matching each other. Steven gets a hand in his hair and pulls, grinning against his mouth at the noise Cib makes, so Cib rocks his hips down, grinding against Steven’s dick. The sudden pressure jolts him, coerces him into pulling his hair again, fingers threading tighter, and — look, he is a serious person who commits serious crimes, who has serious criminals working for him, so he absolutely does not whine when Cib pulls back.

“You know,” Steven busies himself with running his fingers down Cib’s chest, conversational tone betrayed by his uneven breathing and the shake in his limbs. “I’ve been thinking, and if you don’t make me come right fucking now I swear to _god_ , Cib, I’m going to kill you and dump your body off the Del Perro pier.”

“Hm,” Cib hums, and he doesn’t look convinced for a fucking second, but progress is made as he undoes the button on Steven’s jeans. As he slides down the zipper, Steven finds himself rocking his hips up already, trying to get friction against nothing, Cib’s touches feather-light and teasing. Steven makes a mental note to put a hit out on him right after this, because come the fuck _on_. “Nah, you fucking wouldn’t, you’d miss me too goddamn much. Or, no — you wouldn’t do it, but even if you did you still fucking wouldn’t. You’d pay James to do it.”

Steven wants to argue because seriously fuck _off_ Cib, that’s what you get to do when you’re the one in charge, you can delegate shit. You get to call the shots and that includes paying people to do your dirty work, so fuck it.

The argument is lost, though; before he can get any actual words out, Cib gets his jeans open all the way and pulls his cock out, and Steven’s brain does something that feels an awful lot like short circuiting. Cib makes a considerate humming noise, gently scratching the nails of one hand through Steven’s hair, like they’ve got all the time in the world to be doing this and shouldn’t instead already be halfway home. There's a tense moment of neither of them doing much of anything, and then all the air in Steven’s lungs leaves in a rush as he watches Cib push his fingers into his own mouth, and then he’s sucking noisily, clearly making a fucking show of it. Steven watches, mouth open, as spit drips down Cib’s fingers, and then his palm. His eyes never leave Steven’s even as he pulls the fingers out of his mouth with a pop and moves to wrap them around Steven’s cock.

“Oh, _fuck,_ you’re obscene,” Steven moans, raising a shaky arm to cover his eyes, and Cib’s laugh is dark and low as he leans to bite at Steven’s lips, his throat, his jaw, his collarbone. “ _God._ ”

“Just Cib is fine.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

Cib laughs, wholehearted and breathless. He’s anything but gentle when it comes to this, and even with the request to go slow, he seems to have forgotten it as he gets a tight grip around Steven and fuck, Steven’s pretty sure he couldn’t find it in him to complain if he tried. It’s wet and warm, and with the grip so tight, if Steven’s eyes flutter shut it almost feels like it’s Cib’s mouth around him instead of his fingers. Isn’t _that_ a thought.

It only takes a few minutes before Cib starts jerking him off in earnest, actively trying to make him come, all pretense of teasing abandoned. Steven breathes through it, moaning brokenly, writhing underneath him as he rubs his thumb over the head of his cock. Cib's fucking good at this, and it's going on Steven's mental list of shit he does that infuriates him.

“That’s it,” Cib murmurs, and something new and unsettling twists in Steven’s stomach at that, making him feel like he’s on fire all over again because fuck the tone in his voice was warm and overwhelmingly full of praise and yeah, Steven isn’t gonna last long.

“Cib,” Steven chokes out, fingers scrambling for something to cling to, clawing at Cib’s arms, his back, tangling in his hair, whatever he can reach; he’s far past being picky. “Cib, fuck, _more._ ”

Cib worries a hickey into the sensitive spot just under his ear, exactly where he knows it gets Steven weak, other hand landing wherever it can; in his hair, ghosting over his throat, nails running up his side. Steven shivers with the vibration of his voice so close to his ear when he speaks.

“You like that, huh?” comes Cib's voice, breath warm on Steven’s skin. When Steven just moans low instead of answering, he keeps going. “You _do_. You’re so good, Steven, you were so patient, I just wanna make you feel good.”

“Cib,” Steven gasps out, like a warning, like _stop fucking talking or I’m gonna come right now_ , like _I know we’re sort of dating but this is weirdly somehow too personal scale it back_ , like _please never stop talking to me ever_. “Why do you never stop fucking talking, my god."

“You look so good under me.”

“ _Cib._ "

“You know, I’ve been thinking.” Cib starts, a perfect mockery of Steven from earlier as he does this move with his wrist that makes stars explode behind Steven’s eyes. “Next time, I’m gonna fuck you. I’ll open you up for me, nice and slow like you want it, gonna make you take more even when you think you can’t.”

Steven’s voice breaks on something that he’ll later deny was a sob as he thrusts his hips deliriously into Cib’s hand, feeling every bit like the fucking center of the universe begins and ends with him. He feels vaguely like he’s having some sort of goddamned out of body experience. He can picture it if he focuses hard enough, because he’s sure as fuck thought about it on more than one occasion when he was alone and horny. A thousand different images flash through his mind but he settles on a favorite, the concept of Cib coming inside of him, coming _on_ him, telling Steven how good he is, asking who he belongs to. “Oh my god, yes, more, _now_.”

Cib hums cheerfully, like he’s having the best time of his life, like he isn't currently shattering Steven's world via his mouth and hand alone. Steven’s writhing, gasping helplessly as Cib gets a handful of his hair and yanks his head back hard. At this angle, his head forced back so far, it constricts his throat and makes it hard to get a full breath. With his eyes screwed shut, it’s just as easy to picture Cib choking him, and he’s definitely never fucked someone while simultanously fantasizing about them, so cross that shit off of Steven’s bucket list.

“Steve,” Cib’s voice is as serious as Steven thinks he’s ever heard it before. He keeps the grip on his hair tight as he ducks down so he’s right next to his ear. “You’re gonna feel me for fuckin’ _weeks._ ”

That does it. Steven curses, coming all over his stomach and Cib’s hand, his body wracked with the intensity of it. Cib talks him through it, though Steven can’t focus enough to hear much of it. Right now he's pretty sure he'd have a hard time focusing even if a gun was being held to his head.

He comes down slow, feeling like he’s floating, vision dizzy when he opens his eyes again. He watches as Cib licks his come off of his own hand, moving down to lick it off of Steven’s stomach, the muscles twitching under his tongue. There’s no fucking way he could get hard again right now, not after that, but the sensation of Cib’s mouth on his skin sure as hell makes him want to try.

It takes him a solid five minutes to fully come back to his senses, takes him even longer just to get his fucking brain back up and functioning, and when he does, Cib is stretched out on top of him like a giant house cat. He looks extremely smug.

“So.” Tone casual, Steven’s already trying to shift Cib around, trying to reach his belt so he can get his goddamned mouth on him already, the way he’s wanted to since before the job even went down. He’s near sick with nerves again, anxious to reciprocate and make him desperate, but Cib is as unmoving and stubborn as ever. Steven raises an eyebrow at him.

“You can owe me one,” Cib replies easily, sitting up and stretching. “Later. Next time.” He grins, moves to straighten Steven’s glasses where they’re still askew on his face. “We’ll be home in like an hour, man, and _some_ people have enough self control to wait that long.”

Steven frowns, conflicting feelings regarding the thought of next time making him warm all over again versus _fuck off Cib I have self control just not around you._ He ignores both of them in favor of zipping his pants back up and fastening the buttons on his shirt.

“James is gonna have a fucking psychotic meltdown when we get back late,” Cib says, and suddenly Steven has the world's worst migraine. He yanks his glasses off and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“I’m the fucking boss, you’d think I decide when we come home after a job.”

He takes a moment of silence for the chewing out they’re fucking sure to get, and once his glasses are back on his face, he climbs over the center console and slips back into the driver’s seat, turning the key in the ignition. He taps the steering wheel to the beat of the song on the radio, thinking. Let's see.

They’re gonna have to stop at a corner store before they head back, for one, because they both look like fucking lepers from the neck down (and Alfredo, of all fucking people, had cornered him once after one of the first nights he spent with Cib, and knowingly told him about the wonders ice and Chapstick can do). Their Sabre was definitely reported as stolen by now, so they’ll have to dump it and lift another ride somewhere else, which means they're gonna have to look normal while shoveling fifty million in cash into the trunk of a different car. Being in crime is hard fucking work sometimes. Easy money, yeah fucking right.

Cib gets back into the car a second later, waving his phone in front of Steven's face to show he'd texted James. He's acting astoundingly normal for someone who definitely still has a hard-on.

“We don’t choose when we come home after a job because we’re, how does Autumn put it, _reckless and unable to handle ourselves_.”

Steven goes to make a snarky comment about _how the fuck would Autumn know, she stays in her room for weeks at a time_ , but Cib catches his eye instead. He’s grinning at him, looking stupidly, disgustingly fond, holding his hand out like an offering. Steven pauses, considering, because he doesn’t really know what it is they’re doing, but if he takes it that probably means that they’re, like, a _thing_ , and he doesn’t know if he can handle that. He definitely can't handle Parker being right about anything, because he's the one who's always insinuated shit. Over his dead fucking body.

He sighs. Fuck it.

Steven takes it, threading their fingers together. Cib’s hand is solid and warm, comforting, resting with his on the center console like it’s supposed to be there. Steven's still a little orgasm-stupid, and he has to fight a smile at the look of their hands together, at Cib’s ridiculous chipped nail polish. Black as usual, but Steven doesn’t miss the flecks of blood still embedded underneath.

“Yeah, well,” Steven replies, flicking on the turn signal to get out of the parking lot they found themselves in. Already he’s looking for somewhere to trash this car, considering the benefits of dumping it versus setting it ablaze. Just leaving it would be less suspicious, but he knows Cib has a deep seated fondness for pyromania, and for all that went down during their job nothing exploded, so maybe they’ve earned it. He trusts Cib’s keeping a lookout on the empty streets for a different, better car they can actually steal and take home permanently. “At least we’re reckless together.”

Cib just squeezes his hand, humming along to the radio.

**Author's Note:**

> me: i want to write a fake pine fic  
> my brain: make steven and cib fuck in a car  
> me: but -  
> my brain: do it


End file.
